MATTERS OF THE HEART

The characters? Property of the WB. The story? Copyrighted by Ishafel 10/12/2002.

Rated R for adult themes

His father, dead.

His father's valiant, overworked heart, bigger than any man's should be. His father dead on the table. Simon alone stood dry-eyed at the funeral, unable to cry. His father, as he had looked going in, paler than ever, tiredness like a bruise on his face and lips blue. When was that, even? It felt like a lifetime ago. Three days, maybe; Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. In three days Eric had become this dried up, shriveled thing. Impossible that he had ever been alive, impossible certainly that he was dead.

"I'm so sorry about your father," the fat black woman in the flowered dress was saying politely. "Were you with him when he passed?"

"No," Simon said flatly, and turned away. Behind him his mother gasped, clasped the woman's hand. No lie too great, if it kept the parish council happy. "Of course Simon was with his father. All of our children were there. He's just so upset, he doesn't know what he's saying." And hissed, to Simon, "You'd better show your father's memory some respect, mister. Bad enough" and her voice trailed off into a sniffle. Simon wondered how she had been going to finish. "Bad enough, you killed him, with your harsh, careless words. No need to spit on his grave?" Annie had said not one word of reproach to him in three days, but there was nothing she could have said anyway that was worse than what he had thought of himself. It would be a relief to have her yell, now.

Simon hadn't been there, while his father struggled for breath on the table. He hadn't heard the alarms going off, the surgeon's directions to the nurse. He hadn't seen them frantically attempt to find a shockable rhythm. He hadn't heard them call it. "Time of death," what had it been, nearly lunch time? "Time of death 11:57." But none of his siblings had been there either. Annie hadn't been there. There was no reason for them to be in the operating theater. They had all been there, all but Simon, when the doctor (not Hank or Doc thank God, but a man in his forties they'd never met, patient and kind but hardly devastated) came out to the lounge, to tell them that Eric was dead. Well, Matt hadn't been there, but that was hardly his fault; he'd had a big exam, impossible to reschedule, and Eric had said, tell him no, no need for him to come, routine procedure, they do them all the time, safe, great doctor. Mary had had to work. His dad was so proud of her. And Matt's wife Sarah had been there. And Robbie and Kevin. But his mother had needed him, her oldest son present, and he hadn't been there. Where had he been? As if he could forget.

He'd been one floor down, by the vending machine, holding a bag of Fritos and a Coke so cold it burned his hand. He'd been talking to a pretty girl. As he'd turned to go, clutching her phone number written in eyeliner on a napkin, she'd said, "I hope everything turns out well, with your dad, I mean." And he'd said, "Yeah." Not even, yeah, as in yeah, me too. Just yeah, as in yeah, I'm sure you do. And he'd tripped awayupstairs, singing to himself as he waited for the elevator, thinking about Ashley. Of course he could never call Ashley now, even if he hadn't lost her number. He wondered what she must be thinking. Was she waiting by the phone? Probably not, not a girl that pretty.

He'd come off the elevator, feeling good for the first time since his fight with his father the Friday before. Robbie'd been waiting for him, his face grim. "Jesus, Simon, where have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you." And Simon had blinked back at him, mouth gaping like a fish's. Amazing, how even then he'd not imagined his dad could die.

Much the worst, however, what he'd said to his father. All the rest could be forgiven; someday he might even forgive himself for it. But he would never forgive himself those hasty words, that he'd once meant so much: that he hated Eric, that he wished him gone, or never-been. (Not dead, a small part of his mind screamed, surely he had never wanted his father dead.) Other kids wished to be orphans, and had their wish denied, end of story. Why had his, this wish, come true?

"C'mon," Robbie said, "Time to go." He'd been crying, Simon could tell, though it didn't show much. They'd all been crying, all but him. Even Kevin, who'd barely known their father.

"Where?" he managed to ask. But perhaps he hadn't asked; Robbie didn't answer, and even he was not sure he'd heard the words. Instead Robbie was pulling him toward the rented car, his grip on Simon's arm almost enough to bruise. Simon wished it were; he wanted bruises, scars, bleeding cuts and oozing boils. He wanted to hurt visibly, so that everyone would know he was sorry. He hadn't told any of them what he'd said to his father on Friday night, but somehow, he was sure they knew. He hadn't had a chance to say he was sorry Monday morning, hadn't been able to find the words for a public apology. His father had died thinking that Simon hated him.

One moment he was stumbling toward the car, Robbie half supporting him, and the next he was standing by the grave, and someone, Annie? Lucy? had pressed a white flower into his right hand. He had no recollection of the drive, and though the minister was speaking, he could not hear the words. There must be something wrong with him. He turned to Robbie to ask him something, anything, but Robbie was holding Sam, his eyes a thousand miles away. Ruthie, on his left, took his hand and held it so tightly it hurt. Behind him he heard Matt choke back a sob. Funny how, with all his family around him, most of them close enough to touch, he still felt more alone than ever before.

His father would have loved this, would have loved seeing all his friends and family together one last time. Sad, that such gatherings were so often restricted to weddings and funerals, or even just to funerals. Sad that he would never know how many of his parishioners were here, how many of those whose lives he'd touched remembered him so fondly. Sad that he'd never hear their kind words, see their tears. Sad that he'd never hear Simon say he was sorry.

They were all looking at him now, as in a scene out of nightmare, and he realized they were waiting for Matt, behind him, to speak. Matt's voice broke as he said, "My father had a great heart. He could have been anything, anybody, and this is what he chose. He knew that being a minister meant having the power to change lives, and he accepted that. He knew that that was the greatest power he could have, and he was careful to use that power only to do right. He changed my life by being my father. He brought me up, brought us all up, to be different. He gave me the ability to stand up for what I believe, took away my excuses. I can never be one of the group, now, but I truly wouldn't have it any other way. He was my father and I loved him."

Simon's flower dropped from fingers suddenly numb. He bent to pick it up, thinking, damn Matt anyway. His big brother always knew exactly the right thing to say. Matt would never do what Simon had, would never feel this guilt that made his stomach churn. There was no peace in the thought of going home, now or ever, not for him. He would do his duty now, as he had not done when his father was alive. Carefully he dropped the lily on his father's casket. If he had not made Eric happy in life, he must make him proud in death. He took Ruthie's hand again, offered Annie his elbow, and turned to go. He looked back once, as Annie climbed into the car. Eric's grave gaped like a rotten tooth. Simon mouthed to it, I love you, Dad, before he climbed into the car.